


Collection of random drabbles

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Branding, Cannibalism, Coda, Crack, Cuddling, Dean gets fucked by hellhounds but its all very vague, F/F, F/M, Food Play, Gen, Hair Pulling, Honey, Humor, Inappropriate Lube, Kitchen Sex, M/M, PWP, Pregnancy, Purple Prose, RPF, Rape/Non-con Elements, Schmoop, Short One Shot, Torture, Vague Sex, bizarre insertions, flaying, just dont ask questions man i dont fucking know, they're just all fucking over the place ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 20,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of bitsy drabbles from tumblr under 600 words each, a range of themes and pairings the only common denominator is Supernatural. Summaries and warnings at the start of each 'chapter'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Always, Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Wincest

He’s always needed his baby brother, sweet Sammy, with a quick wit and defiant temperament, Sam kept him sane, gave him focus, gave him something soft and good when they were young and he was stuck stretched between the harsh truths of adulthood with the guidance of his father into this life of blood and sacrifice, stuck between John and Sam, Sam who still had some small measure of innocence for all the dirty motel rooms and late nights cleaning weapons, Sam with his bright smile and wide eyes. He always needed his brother.

Somewhere in between the blaze of a second fire and all the bandages strewn along the road, mile markers in dark blood soaking through gauze keeping track of towns by injuries, this scar’s from Tallahassee, this scar’s from Columbus, somewhere from one hunt to another washed in whiskey he’s started to want his baby brother, strong Sammy, when did he grow up with Dean’s back turned, lithe and long and his eyes are knowing, challenging, aged so much it seems for just a few years what did Dean lose in that space.

He’s always loved his baby brother, the only one he had, from the moment mom and dad brought him home, from one town to the next raised in the back of a car, eventually it was just Dean who was raising him, but he loved Sammy and would protect him to the ends of the earth wherever dad dragged them, despite the fights and tension when Sam couldn’t just shut up and listen and be a good son, Dean resented him that sometimes, that fierce sense of freedom Sam ripped and carved for himself but Dean loved him still. He always loved his brother.

Somewhere in between the baby fat and chubby hands of youth, baby teeth lost, all gums, you’ll get your big teeth soon and be a big boy just like your brother, shooting up like a weed body stretched taut and thin, underfed all awkward angles and jut of bones, somewhere from youth to adulthood when Sam did a whole bunch of growing Dean never got to see and now he’s got to see his brother again tall and wide and strong he’s started to lust, nothing between them but a strip of stained shag carpet, a hollow particle board door with duct tape over the holes, nothing but stretches and stretches of space daring him to cross.


	2. A pot of honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megstiel, food play

Meg was stretched out languidly beneath him, dark hair fanning around her head, smooth skin stretching exposed around the dips and curves of her body. She sighed contentedly as Castiel dripped a thick trail of honey down the swell of her breasts and the line of her stomach.

He had spent time with the bees that made this honey, it was a laborious process for them, and he certainly appreciated their efforts. Dipping his head to lave at the saccharine sweet skin Castiel smiled and hummed to himself.

Pulling up when the taste was heavy in his mouth, he stated matter of factly, “You know, honey is essentially the vomit of many bees, they drink the nectar of flowers then regurgitate it into another bees mouth who then passes it on, until it becomes honey through the process of mixing with the unique enzymes in their stomach and is regurgitated into the hives comb.”

Castiel found these things fascinating. He admired the teamwork of the bees, and they were such important little creatures, so diligent as they pollinated flowers and trees and kept the cycle of nature humming along.

Meg laughed. She pushed herself up on one elbow and crooked an eyebrow at him, drawling in her smoky low voice. “So, you’re essentially saying that you’re getting off to some kind of insect roman shower here?”

She did not look irritated, at least, merely amused.

“I, do not understand what the bathing habits of an ancient civilization have to do with our foreplay rituals.”

Meg smiled at him them, wide and secretive, she was a flower hiding bees.

“It’s all right angel, that was never my kind of thing, but I can get used to this.”

Plucking the small honey pot from beside them, Meg flipped Castiel onto his back, sliding down his body with serpentine rolls of her plush hips till she was straddled over his thighs, his cock bobbing and striving valiantly for her attention. Tilting the pot to let a slow drizzle of viscous honey slide down the length of his erection, pooling thick in the nest of curls at the base, she lapped at the sweetness that was almost cloying but took her time to mingle saliva with the honey till it dripped down her throat.

Meg didn’t mind if Castiel was ten sheets to the wind, she could roll with the crazy.


	3. Marked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samifer version Wincest, branding

Dean would thrash and struggle but he wasn’t bound by anything physical, just the hold of Lucifer’s power. He hated being held down with an invisible force, it pressed against every part of your body with immeasurable strength that could crush ribs, breathing was painful but the worst part was that he had nothing to fight against, there was nothing there.

At least, nothing but his brother’s face smirking at him and the searing pain of hot metal pressed against the back of his shoulder. Dean couldn’t tell what he was using this time, it was a crude tool like pliers clamping down on a sliver of metal Lucifer kept pulling back to hold over a flame. It was an agonizingly slow process, heat, press, withdraw, heat again. He wondered what the pattern would be this time. It was always different.

“You know I wouldn’t have to keep doing this if you’d stop skinning yourself to get them off. I wonder if you’ll have a hard time getting it off from here.”

“You son of a bitch, what’s even the point of this, just gonna let me go again, huh, maybe I’ll just disappear this time.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll keep coming back to me. Because I have your brother. And we’ll just do this again. “

The gleeful arrogance laced under the familiar voice of his brother pissed Dean off. Yeah, he wouldn’t stop searching for a way to get rid of Lucifer, and he wouldn’t let his brother go down for it. So what if he failed every time, and every time Lucifer left a brand on his skin to remind him. He could bear the pain, he wasn’t going to give up, ever. That didn’t mean he didn’t have control of his own goddam body, he’d carve off every mark the fucker left.

He bit off a scream of pain when Lucifer smacked the fresh burnt skin declaring his work finished. Choking on air thick with the acrid smell of cooked flesh, Dean kept his face controlled when Lucifer came back around his kneeling form, tossing the tools he’d been using on a rickety table in the dirty space of a dilapidated house they were in.

Dean knew what was coming next. He couldn’t tell what part Lucifer liked more, leaving marks on his skin or watching his face twist in the horrified dread he couldn’t tamp down no matter how many times they did this when his clothes were ripped off. The smug asshole just smiled down at Dean.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the devil wasn’t wearing his brother’s face.


	4. Multi-faceted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sastiel

Castiel has seen him with wet blood smeared across his face wringing the black smoky souls out of demons with the power of his thought and the flick of a wrist. Castiel has seen him fling monsters across a room, smash their faces in with a fist, twist a knife into their back, decapitate them with a stroke of a machete, shoot them with steady aim and set eyes. The man’s fingers are calloused and his skin is mottled in slivers of faded silver scars. Castiel has seen him kill and exorcise and maim so many things.

Castiel has also seen him protect people, shield them from monsters with the cover of his broad body, pull them out of the way with strong arms, push himself in the path of danger to take the brunt of damage. Castiel has seen him sew his brother back together innumerable times, broad hands careful and gentle, long fingers sure and nimble as they pieced together and mended. All the strength and force the man has in his muscles is often put into nothing more than thoughtful care.

Castiel has seen him in many aspects of mundane existence, hunched over expanses of books laid strewn across a table, fingers sifting through papers and eyes focused and swift. Castiel has watched in quiet moments as those broad hands prepared food, stuffed clothes into a wash machine, tied the laces of shoes, sifted through long hair, tapped absentmindedly against crossed arms. The more he observed the gentle and almost timid way those hands could move, Castiel wanted to be touched, to feel, and it is a frighteningly human thing to crave.

Over the years Castiel has watched Sam Winchester unfold like a puzzle before him, edges you wouldn’t think could line up making perfect matches, from boy king and abomination to sacrificial martyr and survivor. The man is multi faceted and complex, as most humans are, but far more than Castiel could have expected.


	5. You'll be eating more than just your words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abaddean, torture, flaying, cannibalism

He knew she’d flay it off first. His anti demon possession tattoo. The five pointed star rimmed in fire place just under the jut of a collarbone – it was gone.

Of course she didn’t just settle for slipping a blade under his skin and pulling up till the flesh was rent, no, demons were more melodramatic than that. It was what usually gave an edge over them, the egos, they craved recognition, more than they craved power they wanted others to know about it, to fear them.

He hadn’t before, but he did now, when there were no barriers, nothing to keep her out, nothing to keep her from using his body however she saw fit. All the years he had trained and sacrificed and honed himself to be a good warrior, it was gone in the flick of a knife.

Blood trickled down his pectoral, hot and wet, free to flow and he couldn’t even focus on the stinging burn of his skin torn away because all he could think about was what the demon would do with him as a vessel.

“You know this is just the beginning Winchester.”

Blood red lips dripped poison from parted slit, she was evil, she was serpentine. She was born of the pit.

“Even if you fucking take me, Sam will stop you, can’t get us both, you got no where to go but down and I will take you there.”

“Such proud words for a man brought so low.”

The knife was a sharp focused pain as it peeled away layers of his skin, a strip along his chest, a strip along his thigh. Pieces and bits. He might have floated away from it all, he was really all too accustomed to this sort of thing, this, this was child’s play, it was torture 101, and he knew how to dissociate and separate himself from his body.

Then she fed strips of his own skin back to him.

Thick chewy strips of human flesh – his flesh – metallic tang of blood and the familiar glut of fat, she fed him to himself, forcing flayed flesh down his throat as he gagged, and in the end it just settled in his stomach thick and curled like guilt.

It was nothing he wasn’t used to.


	6. Sunlight and the scent of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wincest, cuddling

Sunlight slips through the crack between drawn curtains, leaving a path of yellow light across the stained red carpets, dust motes swirling as they pass through, the line reaching over the floor and up the curve of a bed unoccupied, slashing across the space to the bed with two occupants before ending it’s path dashed across a smoke stained wall.

Sam blinks his eyes open blearily as the room slowly fills with the glow of rising day, the strip of intrusive light fallen across his arm where it’s tossed over his brother’s hip. Curled on his side with one arm tucked up close to his chest and the other draped over Dean, face pressed against the back of the other’s head, nose burrowed in short hair, he inhales deeply. Dean smells like cheap shampoo and musty sheets, all metallic tang of blood and gore washed away the night before, the scent is familiarly unfamiliar, that kind of bland generic scent of cheap product that’s abrasive on the hair but Dean uses anyway because it’s free.

His hair is short enough it doesn’t matter, light brown strands mussed up at odd angles from sleep and fluffed out from going to bed wet. Sam breathes, arm curling tighter around his brother’s waist, mindful of the smattering of bruises higher up on his ribs, feeling the breath expanding his belly as Dean murmurs and burrows his head deeper against the pillow.

Sam should wake up, make his retreat, leave the comfort of their contact for dark nights after long hunts where it belongs - in the shadows – maybe pull on a jacket and head out to retrieve breakfast. But Dean is warm and pliant, soft in his sleep and unguarded.

One more minute.


	7. He brings her honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megstiel and honey again

He brings her honey. It’s an offering of sorts, it’s a thank you and an apology and an ‘I need you’ all wrapped in one, sticky sweet and fresh from the comb. She may not have a particular gratitude for the honey itself, but he knows that she appreciates the gesture, even when her praise is mocking and her gaze is harsh, he knows what she needs because she used to tell him.

She would tell him when she thought he couldn’t hear, when he was so far lost in his own head and the unwanted visitors he had that he couldn’t interact with the external world. He couldn’t interact, but he could still hear her through the voices inside his head of which he doubts the reality. She was so quiet much of the time, but every now and then she would talk, talk about lost causes and lost leaders and lost humanity, she knew much about loss. That’s how he knew that she needed. A demon now, but she had vague memories of being human, fuzzy around the edges and blurred through distance, and he wondered. He wondered if demons could ever regain what they had lost.

For some time he had felt as though he was becoming a little more human himself, emotions swelling that he did not understand, cravings for things he never wanted in heaven, was it possible he wondered to fall in slow pieces.

He brings her honey, and if she pushes him down on his knees for it that’s all right, because she’ll smear the honey on his lips and let it mingle between their tongues, saccharine and thick and he doesn’t mind how rough she can be. Maybe it’s just the way she knows how to interact with other’s, with brute strength and offense tactics.

As clever as she can be, he knows she’s a follower, she needs a cause, a guide, a reason; he feels she might want that of him, but he’s not fit to lead, there is no fight left in him, no cause he sees just since he feels so blind, he might even be content in solitude but then he thinks of her wide eyes and deceptive smile and there’s too much she shows him that’s raw.

They’re both lost, a long ways from where they started and no idea where they’re going.

He brings her honey.


	8. Just one more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel/Gabriel and the extradimensional holding capacity of an angel's ass (ie foodplay and cucumbers)

“Just one more bro.”

“I’m – I’m not sure if, if it’ll fit .”

Castiel’s words were gasped and stuttered out as his fingers clenched into the plastic sheeting he was kneeling on. Gabriel just stroked down the exposed length of a side and hip soothingly, cajoling, goading him on for more.

“One more will only make four. C’mon, four cucumbers, that’s not much. You’re as big as the chrysler building, this should be easy.”

“My…. my vessel, is not – isn’t as big, it’s very, limited – cramped.”

Gabriel splayed the palm of his hand against the three cucumbers protruding from Castiel’s ass, red rimmed hole stretched obscenely to accommodate the vegetables while Castiel canted his hips and they twitched with every little nudge and rub Gabriel gave. He was waving the fourth cucumber in his other hand.

“I’m sure you can do it, you’re one of the most determined, stubborn angels I’ve ever know.”

“You know, the – the average rectal canal is, it’s, fuck, it’s only five inches in – in – in length and , three inches, in - diameter.”

Gabriel twisted one of the cucumbers and pushed it in several more inches, drawing it out with a drag towards the side, stretching out and pulling at the muscles. Castiel pressed his chest flush down against tacky plastic sliding with his sweat and tried to remain still. His erection was heavy between his legs and it was almost disconcerting how arousing he found the sensation of being astoundingly stretched and filled.

“Wow, you pay attention in science class, nerd. Guess you’re just way above average then.”

Castiel only had a bitten off groan in retort for that. Gabriel steadied the three already situated cucumbers with the flat of his palm pressed against the ends and placed the fourth next to them, just teasing and running it around the rim, waiting for Castiel.

“One more Cassie, you can beat your own record.”

Castiel felt like he was going to break wide open, all his senses, all thought and existence narrowed down the burn and the insistent pressure. “Okay, one – just – just one more.”

Gabriel slid the cucumber around the muscle and the cleft of his ass, a shining slick mess with the amounts of lube he’d used, pushing firmly with steady pressure till it popped in alongside the others, Castiel practically sobbing with a long jagged groan as the muscles along his back and thighs tensed and released repeatedly. As soon as the fourth cucumber slid in several inches he couldn’t hold back the cracked wail as he came hard writhing back against his brothers hands splayed over his hips keeping him from falling over.

“Nice job bro, I’m sure next time we’ll make five.”


	9. A handful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sevin, hair pulling

He was intimidated at first, of course he was, it was not as though someone who focused solely on school to the detriment of other aspects of his life had much experience in understanding human relations, no, the relations he dealt with the most were of the chemical kind he could safely study at microscopes length.

Yet the more time Kevin spent with one Sam Winchester, the more he found himself inextricably drawn to the gravitational pull of the giant.

He was afraid of Sam. Sam was strength and fierce loyalty and misguided enthusiasm. Sam was dangerous. He was also incredibly smart. At first Kevin did not believe that such animalistic crass hunters could be as intelligent as Sam displayed when he was presenting research and correlating data with the hope of sparking some recognition in Kevin, something, anything, that would garner more knowledge on the tablets they had placed all their bets upon.

It may have been a mistake, at least according to Kevin, but he wasn’t too experienced in what was and what was not supposed to be that he couldn’t rightfully tell. But there weren’t a whole lot of things in his life anymore that sparked a response of ‘yes please more’ instead of ‘what is going on why am I here’. So he went with it.

Sam was kind and gentle in his approach, always trying to coax things out of Kevin, trying to understand, to empathize. It was no wonder he was so caught off guard the first time they initiated anything more physically inappropriate than brushing past each other.

Sam was all broad hands and brute strength and undeniable force. Kevin could swing with it, he was small, but he was determined. The overwhelming almost incapacitating force of Sam Winchester elicited a response that was undeniably confusing and inextricably arousing.

There was one thing, however, which Kevin learned he could use to turn the tides.

The first time he wrapped a thick bunch of hair around his fist and pulled, Sam went lax in his hold, still and perfectly tense for a brief moment before he shuddered and pushed back.

Kevin was a smart guy, proper assumptions based off observations and correlated with field tested data could be reliable, and he soon learned that Sam was weak with his hair. Even when Kevin was pressed back against a wall with his legs hitched around Sam’s slender waist, he could guide the other to whatever he wanted with a firm handful of hair. Sam would arch back and relax into the contact, waiting, letting his body follow the guide of his head where Kevin happened to lead it.


	10. In the comfort of night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megstiel

He could tell himself it was trite and cliche all he like, but there was something comforting in the cover of darkness when they met, something hidden, something that made the bruising wrongness of their coupling somehow softer around the edges.

Her human form was well suited to the moonlight. Pale skin taut over her stomach as she arched and rolled on his lap, the swell of her breasts swaying with the motion, long falls of dark curling hair cascading over slender shoulders. He could see the human that she had stolen to walk this plane of existence, and he liked to think he could see the human she used to be beneath the sticky black seep of ichor that enveloped her true form.

Even her true form was fascinating in the night. By day it was terrifying and harsh, all sharp angles and blackness sucking the light of sun and twisting it into something gray and muddled. She was made for the night like so many of the creatures that hid in the shadows. Wan moonlight fractured through broken glass in the wooden panes of the old abandoned house they had found and draped over the writhing mass of her true visage, seeming to temper it. There was security and subtle beauty in night.

Black clawed fingers and sharp tipped teeth that might devour him opened and closed, hands splayed on his chest where she held herself up, her head framed by the grimy dust coated light fixture above that was unused; it looked the sort of thing that had been crystal and lovely long ago, he could make out etchings of star bursts through the dirt.

It was strange how inhabiting a vessel could affect one’s perception and appearance, the world blurring between physical and metaphysical expressions of energy and existence. It was as though he could measure his ebbing grace in the sway of tactile sensation over him, how he lost himself to her hold, her heat, her insatiable want.

The angel might think he could lift up a demon, if even just enough to crack through the shell of ichor around her twisted soul, but something in him recognized the inexorable pull downward she exerted on him as well.


	11. What's your reason?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LuciferxAnna , torture

“What I really want to know, is why?”

The thin tip of a angel blade was dragged across pale skin, a line of bright crimson welling to the surface and dripping down the valley between breasts, a tendril of blue white grace seeping out and dissipating in the air.

“Why you would ever choose to fall.”

Looking down at her surveying his work, the skin of his face was mottled with broken open sores, wrinkled skin yellowing around the fringes of pink, lit up with a deceptive smile. 

“I mean, you didn’t want to fight with me all those years ago, eons, ages by now. I actually stood for something, I fell for something, I had a cause, I still do.”

Flame red hair fell over pale shoulders, matting with the blood as he continued to draw the point of her own blade against her skin.

“But you, it was just selfish motive wasn’t it? You fell for yourself, threw your grace away, the moment it was inconvenient you went running back to them.”

He ‘tsked’ a few times, thick fingers brushing her hair out of the blood across her chest, tossing it over her back, palm coming to cup her cheek and curl over the small pretty face.

“And they’ll just use you how they see fit. You’re not even fighting for our father anymore, you know that don’t you? It’s not too late, you could still fight for me. We are more alike than you think.”

Pink lips that had been pursed over clenched teeth finally parted, spitting out words harsh and pained. “I am nothing like you!”

He laughed at that, oh he laughed, smoothing his hand through her hair and bringing the blade down again making neat parallel ladder marks climbing up her ribs. She was such a pretty bird with her wings clipped, the power she fought so hard to recapture slowly seeping out of her vessel as he shredded her piece by piece by piece. Maybe there’d be nothing left for him to use in the end if she ever did decide to cross lines, but he doubted she would. Anael had always been stubbornly righteous.

Lucifer was still not sure why she had decided to shed her grace and fall to earth. It was baffling, beautiful in it’s chaotic surprise. Perhaps if he flayed off the skin of her vessel he could find the answers behind her ribs as her grace ebbed and died.

A broken sob tumbled over her lips cracked open on teeth gnawing and trying to keep back the noises. Lucifer ran the pad of his thumb over the plush swell of them, coaxing her to open her mouth, talk to him, sob for him, keep him company a while longer because soon she wouldn’t even be able to whimper.

It was almost a pity so many of his brother’s seemed incapable of listening to greater reason. He suspected many of them felt what he did, burning questions unanswered and the pain of betrayal, but they seemed to either be ignorant of it’s cause or capable of shifting it onto something else to blame.

He liked Anael, he truly did, she was fierce and intelligent, he could admire that. The vessel she had been born into was slender and lovely, a pretty blossom of rose to hide all her thorns, sharp angles and dangerous intent.

It was regretful she was not interested in taking up arms next to him, but he couldn’t say he would regret it much as he drew the blade across her stomach and dipped his fingers in the blood her body wept, curling them through the grace it expelled.


	12. Why do you have clothes on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wincest

“Why do you have clothes on?”

Dean blearily rubbed at his eyes, crusted over and tired from too much drinking last night, among other things.

Sam just made a weak attempt of a bitch face at him. “Dude, I went out for my morning run already. Not like I’m gonna go out naked.”

Dean lifted the rumpled motel sheets off his naked body, looking down underneath them, setting them back and staring at Sam unimpressed.

“I’m still sleeping in sheets covered in dry come and you’re out running?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Well then get up and shower.”

“This can’t be good for you Sammy. All the running. And the, being awake. And the not being in bed naked to make good use of my morning wood. It’s not right.”

“Ungh, I’m sweaty and gross. I’m going to take a shower, then we can make the other bed dirty.”

“You’re just going to get even more sweaty. Get your ass naked and get in here.”

“Dude, ew, didn’t you clean up at all after last night?”

“Nope, my ass is still wet Sammy. You should get naked and get back here.”

Sam shook his head and sadly walked away from the bed, earning a whiny groan from Dean, but he came back with a water bottle and started stripping.  
“I’m surprised you didn’t even feel me get up this morning. You really shouldn’t drink so much.”

“Hey, I earned last night. Gimme that water.”

Sam tossed the water to his brother, shaking out his sweat damp hair and flinging dirty clothes into the corner of the motel room. He opened one of the windows before crawling back in bed. “Dude it reeks in here.”

Dean made a show of inhaling deeply, sitting up enough to screw the cap off the bottle. “Like sex and your sweaty sasquatch ass. What more could you want?”

“I’m just going to start hanging an air freshener around your neck.”

“You want me to get you some nice candles Samantha?”  
“Shut up.”

“Aw, we could get some incense. It would be so romantic.”

“You’re such a dick.”

Dean’s cackling was cut off by his brother’s heavy body pouncing on him, pinning him down to the mattress and spilling cold water off the both of them. They tussled under the sheets half heartedly, rearranging and squirming around until Dean was belly down on the mattress with his erection rubbing against the dirty come stiff sheets and Sam’s broad body blanketing him on top.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Whatever.”

Any snarky remarks Dean might have made were discarded in favor of not screaming like a little bitch when Sam nudged his legs apart and slid into his still loose body, sticky and wet from last night. Muffling his undignified noises in the pillow, Dean rocked back, trying to get up on his knees, but Sam kept him held down, setting a slow easy pace.

Waking up naked under dirty sheets with his brother was a great way to start the morning. Possibly the only better option was waking up sleepy and horny with a fully awake Sam fresh from his runs who was tired out and would fuck him lazy and slow until they made the bed completely uninhabitable.


	13. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megstiel, HumanCas

“Yes, ok, I’ve dreamt about you and now? You’re all I can think about…”

“Gosh Clarence, does it upset you so much to like me?”

“This is highly disconcerting, I’m accustomed to walking through others dreams and now I have no control over my own.”

“It’s called being human.”

“But why can’t I control it?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been human but…. dreams kind of just show you what you think about a lot, what you want, or what you fear?”

“I don’t understand it. I’ve thought about you before, I’ve cared about you, worried about you, why am I having dreams about you so frequently?”

Castiel mumbled into his coffee cup, hair tousled from bed, eyes red rimmed and Meg knew he probably had another nightmare, not just a dream, and honestly it was kind of starting to worry her how obsessive the ex-angel had gotten now that he was human. Probably all those emotions or something, humans were awfully fragile things. It made Meg want to bail ship a few times. But she kept coming back.

Tilting her chair back on it’s legs, the battered furniture was crammed in the corner of the tiny kitchen in human Cas’ tiny apartment and his new tiny insignificant existence. He looked different, more than just not having all his grace that burned her eyes or his big fucking wings and his stupid bickering heads. He looked tired, looked haunted, he looked fucking human.

“I don’t know, but I swear if you turn into a sap on me, I’m just going to sit on your face to shut you up.”

He still did that squinting thing though, blue eyes thinned into lines and head cocked to the side as he regarded her. He was shirtless, wearing a thin pair of blue boxers, apparently all the sensations of a human body where overwhelming to him and in the heat he abhorred excess clothing. Not like she would complain. It had been a long, long time since Meg had been human. She tried to remember what it was like, but to be honest with herself, she didn’t really want to.

“What does this obsession mean? It feels like weakness.”

“Human emotion is a weakness. You should probably keep that in check.”

Castiel frowned and hid half his face in his coffee cup. The morning sunlight coming through the bare window lit up the wild curls of his hair and cast a long shadow of him across the table. Meg wasn’t sure why she was still here, across from him, wearing just an oversize t-shirt, her long smooth legs propped up on the table and arms crossed over her chest. She understood obsession pretty well.

Meg was a follower, she needed a cause, needed someone to follow, to give her direction, order, and for some stupid fucking reason she had latched on to Cas. When he was an angel, he had direction, he had purpose, he could give her that. But now, now they were just sitting around drinking coffee, fucking on a lumpy mattress, hiding from the long lines of enemies they both had by fading into the water stained and mildewed background of this shit hole of a city.

And she knew she wasn’t going anywhere cause even though she didn’t have dreams anymore, Cas was all she thought about.


	14. whiskey, knives and traps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demon Dean

There’s whiskey on his lips, blood on his fingertips. The space between his ribs is hollow and his eyes are stained black. And it was so easy this time around, top side, to surrender. Least from where he’s looking out now, hindsight, all he sees is inevitability. Cause his life has always been a story of violence. He’s a dealer of death, he plays with fire. The blood in his veins tells him it’s just a family tradition, going back and back and back. History always repeats itself. A new cast, a new era, the same old song and dance.

There’s a knife in his hands, an angel in his sights. The blade slides so easy into a borrowed vessel and the stolen grace seeps weakly from the wound, pulsing light ebbing in the spaces between them. Blue eyes more hurt than the dying body, dying grace, are wide with betrayal. Questions fade unsaid behind parted lips and the quiet is too much, too solemn, air weighted with everything already past, endured together. So he laughs, and he laughs.

There’s a trap under his feet, a brother stands before him. That familiar face is marred with deep creases and purple smudges under wet eyes like bruises. He could be mad, for grievances expounded and slights imagined, wrongs both committed and suffered. They traded lies and deception as easily as they cared and kept each other, like it was inseparable. Like hurting each other was just a part of loving. And today is no different.


	15. things Dean knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wincest

-  
Salt  
-

His fingers always taste like salt. Salty fries, salt and burn, salt along the windowsill. The salt’s seeped in between the whorls of his fingerprints, ingrained in his identity. It’s sunk into his body, into the marrow of his bones, instead of sweating out it’s sunken in. They say you throw salt over your shoulder to blind the devil, that’s just a superstition. But he knows you salt the bones before you burn them, that’s just common sense. Besides, there’s no devil. There may be monsters in the dark, every variety of a child’s nightmare, he knows that. But there’s no god, so there can’t be a devil. Just creatures of flesh and blood and bone, creatures of electro waves and ectoplasm, even if you can’t always touch them you can see them, hear them, they have a story, they have a birth. These are the things he believes in. Things he knows. Like a salt circle for protection, rocksalt shotgun shells handpacked, the salt on his fingertips.

-  
Taste  
-

Dean’s not a man of refined tastes. Food is food and when it’s scarce you feed your brother first then you eat whatever’s around. Little kid fingers are nimble for picking food off a shelf sly like, but little kid jackets don’t hold much. But that’s all right, Dean’s not too picky about taste, he’ll take what he can lift, what he can scrape together, what others leave behind. When he’s old enough to earn his food, if scams and hustling can count for earning, he still sticks with what he knows. Food that’s cheap, doesn’t spoil on the road, greasy big meals when you hit a diner cause you don’t know when the next one will be. He eats well, but somehow his favorite flavors are something else. He knows all the tastes of Sam. The salt of sweat on his skin, the saccharine traces of candy in his mouth, the bitterness of his come. More than the tastes of his body, Dean swears, he can taste his brother’s fear. In cemeteries under cloud cover night, in sleazy motels having shouting matches with their dad, bleeding out in the backseat of the Impala. Dean can taste all sorts of things on his brother. He hoards all the tastes of Sam, sweet and sour, it’s not like he’s got refined taste.

-  
Stitches  
-

Stitches aren’t always the same. Dean misses the curved suture needle they lost somewhere along the way, it dipped under the skin and resurfaced across the gash neat and even, minimal tug, tidy rows of stitches. Now they usually use a flat sewing needle, pushed at awkward angles, skin plucked and pulled. One time the best needle they had was fat and a little blunt, it hurt like a bitch forcing it’s way through torn bloody flesh and the line of that scar is jagged and raised. It matters too what kind of antiseptic you have for it, if it’s rubbing alcohol or whiskey or even a splash of listerine will do in a pinch. Whether it’s sewing thread or floss or fishing line makes a difference, coarse or smooth, following the needle through the skin. Stitches differ, skin puckered and pulled, but there’s always Sam’s face over Dad’s shoulder looking puckered and pulled too, trying to help, getting in the way. But that’s okay, cause he’ll help later, when he crawls into Dean’s bed with careful hands and shy kisses. His brother’s stubborn aftercare is always the same even if the stitches aren’t.


	16. Commonality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genfic, Meg and Lucifer

Meg flicked a peanut shell off the scuffed wood table of the bar and leaned back in her chair, kicking her feet up as she lowered the beer bottle from her lips.

“You know what took me a long time to get used to, the height difference. Took me at least a few hours to get a feel of the controls.”

“I found him pretty roomy inside. Of course I usually have to struggle to stay contained in vessels that don’t really fit. Sam, he was perfect.”

Lucifer tipped back another shot glass and slouched in his chair with one arm slung over the back.

Meg rolled a shoulder and finished what was left in her bottle. “True but I don’t have the juice you do, I fit in just about anything. I’m an average pocket sized demon.”

“That must be nice.”

“It’s convenient.”

“He bitched about everything though, I’m surprised those two get as much done as they do. It was all whine whine whine.”

“I know. Fuck, some of the things he has buried in that pretty little head of his.”

Lucifer refilled two shot glasses and they knocked them back. He tapped his cheek a few times, thinking. “I will say the ‘will they, won’t they’ drama between him and Dean, it’s worse than a chick flick.”

Meg hiccuped with an aborted laugh half swallowed. “Yeah, if only I had more time in him….”

“I don’t know why Sam seemed so offended by the suggestions of what I could give him if he’d of only played along nice. I’ve had carnal relations with some of my brothers.”

Meg crooked an eyebrow at him, pouring more liquor but Lucifer really didn’t need it to ply his tongue.

“Really?”

“Oh don’t look so surprised. A lot of angels sin, when given the opportunity.”

“Huh. Anyone I know?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“You’re not a gentleman.”

“Good point.”

Lucifer raised his glass to her and tipped it back. Meg refilled the shot glasses.

Taking another from her, Lucifer cracked his neck. “Tell me a joke.”

“So. Jesus walks into a hotel to get a room, gives the clerk three nails and says ‘can you put me up for the night’.”

Lucifer slapped the table, rattling the bottles, and laughed. “Oh that’s a classic. Man I gotta tell you, he was a douchebag, but Jesus was pretty funny.”

Meg shrugged and took another drink. She’d never the met the guy. “I swear though, Sam probably has enough daddy issues to rival you.”

“Oh yeah. I kept telling him we were more alike than he thought, but no, he didn’t want to listen. I’ll tell you, it felt like home in him. He has this anger, coulda made me proud.”

“Yeah. And he has really big hands.”

“Mmm.”

Meg giggled and fiddled with the bottle.

“I touched his dick.”

Lucifer smiled and reached up for a high five, “I did too.”


	17. The days after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wincest

Days and nights are divided into and defined by the befores, the afters, the in betweens.

Sam likes the days and nights in between hunts when things are easy and casual between he and Dean. When there’s not really any rush, nothing to run towards and nothing to run away from. He likes the in betweens because that’s when he gets to see Dean smile.

During hunts are always hard because they’re almost always tinged with desperation and need, the raw nerve want when there’s a close call and after all the blood’s been washed away they have to touch to know they’re still there. Muscles ache and stitches pull but they both need and it goes unspoken, all the possibilities and close calls.

The days after are what he likes best.

When they’re both tired and sore but firmly back in their aliveness, when the panic’s receded and it’s calm and quiet in the motel room. Dirty bandages and bloody clothes to be picked up, supplies to be restocked. But Dean is more receptive then, when he’s hurting and it’s not too much. He’ll let Sam dig into the muscles of his back, and check his wounds, and kiss him slowly with the care and triumph of recent victory.

The days after are mutual showers with reaching for each other when sore bodies protest, mid day naps with legs tangled and bodies recovering, Dean’s hands lingering on his hips behind closed doors because he’s there and he’s still breathing.

Sam likes the days after.


	18. Starved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weecest

He touched his brother before he knew what it meant to want something in that way. 

He touched his brother before he knew, cause all he had was this hunger, was this wanting. All he had was this expectation. But there was no reason, no explanation and no logic behind it. Only an order. His life was an order and all the wants and doubts and insecurities, there was no room for that, those things weren’t what he was supposed to be. He had an order. And all the other little things that he was, these were relegated to the shadows, to the unknowns, to the dark secret places of their lives. 

He touched his brother because he was starved for the contact, for the simple human connection of someone who did not recoil from his touch, for his need of the contact of another that knew what he was, what he was capable of. His brother always knew, how he could he not, as smart as he was. 

The thing was. The thing that he dreaded, that he knew with a hot weighted guilt was so , so wrong, the thing was, that his brother touched him back. Little brother hands and innocent brother smile, he was always there, crawling together at night whether they needed to share a bed or not, eventually the necessity of it didn’t matter. It was comfort, it was contact, it was reassurance of other of understanding on dark fretful nights where the shadows pressed in and the fear of a mind reared itself, it was these nights that they needed, that they sought. 

His brother was hungry, always so hungry. His young growing belly needed food that there was never enough of, his young growing mind wanted to grasp for more than could be explained. There was always more to have, more of the physical and more of the metaphysical, there was more. Always more. And his brother was so hungry, for everything, for all the things he could not give. 

It was a starvation, young growing mind eager and wanting shriveling without sunlight, without water to sustain it, and what did he have what did he have to give his brother to keep going. He had buckshot and salt, gun oil and lore, he had nothing that his brother wanted and everything he feared. What could he give. 

There was a schism between them of irrefutable and fundamental disagreement, a dispute of free will and purpose, a dispute of inalienable fundamental rights. But it was never really what was at the core was it. What was between them. It was something more, that ran so deep they couldn’t touch it, couldn’t even fathom it if they tried. 

When they grew up, they grew apart, and no matter how many branches swayed towards one another in the breeze, their trunks were always reaching towards a different light. 

His brother was hungry. Always starved. Whether for food, or for more. His brother was hungry, and he would give and give of everything he was to slake the hunger of his brother. Because he defined himself by his brother. He defined himself by other. By the tangible results he could see for the sacrifices he gave. And what was more worthy than his brother. 

No matter how much he gave, his brother starved. 

Greedy hands wanting reach for anything they can get, hungry mouth ready to devour him, and he’d give, and he’d give, just so his brother could have.


	19. rust rot salt sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wincest

It smells like rust and rot.

Falling down, pick you back up again. 

The smell is thick, something tangible, sour on the back of the tongue. It smells like it’s smelled for the past few days. Like death. But the corpse on the bed is pink again, none of that paraffin white wax skin, he’s pink, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. 

Sammy. 

Can’t stop staring, something like disbelief, despite the fact a soul’s been bartered for this, there’s disbelief. Stiff limbed cold cold rust rot corpse, it’s gone and Sammy is back. 

Dean’s still drunk. He took baby out swerving on the asphalt to charge headlong, find a cross roads, deal made, in a year he’ll be gone. But he’s standing now, and so is Sam. 

He’s standing now, a sway to his step, drunk disbelief, he’d been drowning in grief and Jack and threw out his soul into the water to fetch the sharks. 

It still smells but Sam is standing. Pulling Dean into his arms. Warmth and the shift of his lungs with breath. It’s too familiar. Desperation. Twisting up in each other when everything is wrong wrong in the world and the wrong right between them is what keeps them floating. 

There’s still a sanguine red stain on the bed. Where he bled out from the wound in his back. It split him open and he spilled out, it split Dean open and he fell apart too. 

One job. He had one job. Take care of Sammy. He failed. He fixed it.

Sam’s standing in this room smelling like death demanding answers from Dean. Cause there’s still a mark on his back, long pink line on his spine that he winces away from when Dean touches it. Sore. Tender. The mark on his back, the tension between them when they try to talk with their fingers and Dean has to keep the lies from spilling out of his mouth like the blood spilled out of Sam’s back. 

He can’t tell his brother. He won’t. Wrong wrong. Sam can probably tell, can feel his fingertips too light holding back trying to keep the lies inside. They still tangle up in each other like overgrown weeds on the bare mattress stained with blood. 

Sweat and come cover the stink, mix up with it. Makes the room warmer, there’s no denying Sam is alive. Dean doesn’t even care if he’s dying. He did his job. 

They’re sunk into each other. Under the skin. In the marrow of the bones. Blood swapped and mingled between them like spit between kissing mouths. They devour each other. Consume. Sustain. 

In the cold empty house falling apart. Wallpaper peeling, floor boards warped, furniture rotting, vines up the side and holes in the roof. They’ve never had shelter that wasn’t falling down around them.

They’ve always had shelter in each other.

Death isn’t permanent. It’s inevitable. But for the right price anything can be had. 

Skin to skin. Mouth to mouth. Keep the lies in his bones. Give everything else away. 

It smells like salt and Sam.


	20. Put on a show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is J2 rpf - the first and only I've ever done so I'm just going to smush it in here ....

The first thing Jensen thinks when he sees Jared walking in on him fucking masturbating in their living room is that he really, really should turn down the tv because he did not hear Jared coming in the front door. 

The second thing that he thinks, is that what’s coming towards him - topless, really, is that necessary - is not actually Jared. No, it doesn’t walk like Jared, it’s not looking at him like Jared. It’s kind of Sam, but it’s not really Sam either. It’s the Sam on the screen that Jensen was just jerking off to, soulless Sam working out topless in season six. 

Jensen has watched this scene way too many times to be healthy. Jared was just really fucking ripped during that season, can you blame him. 

He’s frozen with his hand on his still fully erect dick as he tries to fumble for the remote, zip up his pants, do anything but stutter wide mouthed on the couch caught red handed. Sure Jared’s not quite as ripped anymore as he was then, but goddam, he’s still tall, lean, fit and he’s looking at Jensen like he’s about to be devoured. 

"Jesus, fuck, Jared, you weren’t supposed to be home so early."

Jared rolls a shoulder and continues stalking across the room at him. Seriously, it’s kind of fucking creepy how good he is with the subtle nuances, because that’s just soulless Sam right there and it’s putting Jensen in Dean’s headspace, which is equal parts creepy and hot as hell. 

"Sorry to interrupt. Only, I’m not really."

"What are you - "

Jensen is not sure what he was about to say, but it doesn’t matter because Jared is sinking to his knees, pushing Jensen’s legs wider apart and holding them with a tight grip, looking up at him with an intense regard and a wicked smile. 

"Hey Jen, you should take out your phone."

His dick is twitching in his lap and Jared’s grinning at him and, “What, why?” exactly is supposed to be taking out his phone.

"Cause, you should record this, we can send the video to Gen and Dani."

"Oh god."

Jensen digs his phone out of his pocket while Jared runs his hands further up, grabbing his jeans and tugging them lower. Jensen slouches on the couch, pushing his hips down closer to the edge, and holds the phone up to record. As soon as it’s trained on Jared, he dips forward and sucks Jensen’s cock into his mouth. 

Biting his lip, Jensen has to concentrate to keep his phone from shaking, because Jared’s just right down to business, no teasing, taking exactly what he wants. Jared’s kind of different when he’s being watched, and he loves being watched. As sweet and humble as Jared can be, Jensen knows that he loves having a camera pointed at him. 

Jensen tries to stifle the noises he’s making, little grunts and gasps, because he wants to record how Jared sounds, how filthy wet he’s gotten Jensen’s cock, how eagerly he sucks all the way down to the base while he brings one of his massive hands up to fondle Jensen’s balls. 

Jensen stiffens and tenses, breathing erratically, toes curling in the carpet while he focuses on the keeping the phone steady. He can swear Jared still has that fucking sexy arrogant smirk curling up the corners of his lips even though his pretty lips are stretched around Jensen’s cock. 

Dani and Gen are going to get a treat tonight.


	21. Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty solo Castiel headcanon , coda for 8x23

The first thing he sees after he’s fallen - been thrown - to the earth graceless and godless is his hands. His human hands and his weak fingers clutching at the dirt of a forest floor. And he can feel it - oh for as weak as he is he can feel so much more.

As the loose dirts grits underneath his nails and smears across his skin, he can’t will it away with a thought because he is no longer an angel. He is no longer clean.

No. That’s a lie. He hasn’t been clean for a while now.

When he rolls onto his back, spine arching up away from twigs, and rocks, painful things that worry at his vessel - his body - through what seems now like such a fragile layer of clothes, he can see them. Through the cover of trees and the spines of branches, he sees his brothers and sisters falling from the sky as their wings burn.

He can hear them cry as they plummet down. Picking himself up from the earth, there are aches in his muscles - in his bones - that are both wholly foreign and completely familiar. He has known pain in his eons of existence, he has known battle and torture, but it has never felt like this. It has never ebbed and flowed through his body without easing.

It is agony.

Wandering to the edge of the forest, on the shore of a lake, he watches them. As they come tumbling down, one by one. Holding a hand up to the sky, he would catch them if he could, but his hands are so small now.

They are finite. They are weak. They are filthy.

He can smell the dirt on them, and something sharper, metallic. In the silver moonlight there’s a glint of dark wet something trickling down the palm of one hand.

He’s bleeding.

He must have cut his palm on something sharp from the forest floor, and he can’t seal it up with a thought. It leaves a track through the grime, through the wrinkled skin.

These hands are his.

They are finite. They are weak. They hurt.

Castiel wanders. He is lost and he is hopeless. His body is burdened with wounds that are more than physical. It is difficult to catalogue and prioritize which sort of injury must be tended to first.

He is human.

He fears he will not last. Like a flower plucked that will wilt, milk harvested that will sour, deceased bodies that will rot.

He will not last.


	22. Legs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wiiinceeeeesssst

Sam’s always loved Dean’s legs. When they were really little and they both could sprawl in the back of the Impala like it was a wide open Kansas plain, he’d tuck up in the crook of Dean’s legs while his brother read to him or they’d watch the scenery together and play games. When Dean grew taller and broader, Sam always felt like he could hide from anything behind his brother’s legs, clinging on to the belt loops of his jeans. As Sam started to shoot up to meet Dean’s height, he started to feel less than brotherly things about Dean’s legs. 

The way they’d open wide when Dean sprawled on a motel bed, the way his worn jeans snugged tight around his ass when he was bent over the hood of the Impala fixing something Sam couldn’t focus on for obvious reasons. Sam developed an obsession with the way Dean’s legs were different from almost everyone else’s legs that he saw though. 

When he watched Dean walking away from him or towards him, he watched the way his brother’s legs bowed out, a wide gap between his knees. It shouldn’t fascinate Sam as much as it did, but pretty much everything fascinated him about Dean. 

Sam’s been watching Dean for years. Through thick and thin, to hell and back, his gaze keeps falling on his brother and the way Dean moves. He’s thick muscled and sturdy, and sometimes Sam can’t even comprehend all the miles Dean’s walked on his legs, all the fights that have knocked him off his feet, all the late nights that Dean’s spent on his knees in front of Sam. 

He’s kissed every inch of his brother’s body, from the tip of his nose to the webs of his toes. Sam loves to suck on his brothers cock, to shove his face between his brother’s legs. He spends an inordinate amount of time nosing against Dean’s belly and kissing the warm skin above his heart. But the place on Dean’s body that Sam loves the most is his legs. 

Sam knows that Dean doesn’t like obvious hickey’s on his neck, but everything else is fair game, and more often than not the insides of Dean’s bowed legs end up smattered with dark purple bruises because Sam can’t stop himself from biting into the firm muscle, taut skin covered in light hair. 

He loves to fuck Dean on his back, legs splayed wide with Sam’s broad hands holding them there, fingers digging in to his thighs. He loves the way Dean’s legs fit so perfectly around his waist, slanted outward, that gap between his knees perfect to nudge into. Dean’s legs are strong and they just look so nice when Dean straddles his waist and rides him eagerly. 

Sam loves everything about his brother, and he loves every dip and rise of his brother’s body, but he’s always felt like the space between Dean’s legs was just for him, somewhere safe, somewhere wanted, somewhere to hide.


	23. the sound of goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wincest

There’s a particular kind of sound every single time that Sam leaves. 

Well, it’s more like the lack of a sound. 

It’s more than just his absence. The first time Dean hears it, after the shouting match between Sam and John, after Sam stalked off in the dark and John stormed away probably to a bar, after Dean was left alone in that shitty little house they were renting, he heard it. A kind of soft lulling pulse in his ears. His heartbeat, probably, he’s figured that out by now but he didn’t know what it was then. 

Dean’s life was always noisy. Sam’s whine, his laugh, the way his breath hitched when he cried, the way he made a little growl when he was frustrated. Sam’s voice, changing over the years and how it cracked when he really started to grow up and how breathless it sounded sometimes next to Dean’s ear, how sweet his voice sounded when he pleaded. The sound of old mattresses creaking, rattling pipes when they were alone together in the shower, Dean’s back hitting the dirt when they wrestled, how two sweaty bodies sounded moving together. Sam snoring in the bed across from him, or next to him. Sam’s book rustling in the back of the Impala while he studied. The methodical quiet click click when Sam carefully cleaned weapons. 

Dean didn’t even know that he could hear his own heartbeat, not until that night. 

The time Sam walked out on him to be with Ruby, it sounded like the broken glass under Dean’s body that ground into the carpet. When he stilled, lying there shocked, he could hear it again, his own heartbeat in the quiet. 

The time Sam thought he could walk away from the apocalypse and the mess he’d made, thought it would make it better somehow. Dean tried to quiet that raging howling silence with Cas by his side, but Cas couldn’t stay either. And he knew that when he stopped and turned off the engine, when baby’s purr went quiet, Dean would have to listen to that again. 

He’d drive forever if he could, if he didn’t have to listen to it.

The sound of goodbye.

It was more than silence. The silence is so loud he could hear himself.

He didn’t like being alone. 

When Sam leapt into the earth, it was a chaotic fast tempo of panic and empty loss, and Dean was certain that the sound was all that he’d be left with. No Cas, no Bobby. Just the blood dripping down his face and his adrenaline pumped heart beating in his ears. 

He’s heard it too many times. 

The silence is deafening.


	24. Explore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charliecest, dubcon

“It’s something we need to explore.”

Charlie should probably respond to that better than whimpering and arching her back, but the thigh pressed up between her legs and the teeth gently tugging at her earlobe are kind of frying her thinking capabilities at the moment. Twisting her hands up in the soft hair that falls over her face, grinding her hips up against the warm thigh, Charlie gasps and squirms.

This is bad. This is so so bad. She really shouldn’t be doing this. If she had any question before whether she was the good Charlie or the bad Charlie in this equation, she knows now. Because there’s a sliver of guilt in her belly that’s cutting itself deeper. There has got to be something wrong with doing this.

The person on top of her pulls up, wicked grin on her face, and Charlie recognizes the face from every time that she’s looked in the mirror, but the expression on it just doesn’t look like her. Yep. That’s definitely bad Charlie. Crap, this was just too weird.

“I - uh - I’m not too sure we really need to to test out that theory.”

The other Charlie dips down, nudges her face to the side and licks along her neck. Charlie feels heat flushing under her skin and there’s a strange lapping pleasure that seems to ripple between them. Then her other self bites down hard on her neck, almost too much, sucking on her skin and working a hand up her shirt.

“I definitely felt that.”, she declares, kissing gently over the spot.

“Oh man, this is just weird. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I need to know just how much of a connection there is between us.”

“Obviously, like a lot, and I promise I’ll be careful ok. Look I’m sure we can find some books on this, or something. No …exploring… needed…”

Charlie bit back a moan and squeezed her eyes shut, her weak protests stuttering out when the other Charlie pushed her shirt up to the top of her chest and started tugging her bra down with teeth. Hot breath fluttering across her skin, light kisses interspersed with sharp nips, the other Charlie ignored her.

It felt like this should be wrong, but really, she knew all the places she liked best and despite the vague feeling of creepiness, Charlie couldn’t help getting wet and grinding against the thigh still pressed up against her. Hands gripping on to her other’s shoulders, Charlie bit her lip as she watched herself kissing down, down, tongue swirling around her navel, pants undone, and yeah, yeah they probably should explore for themselves.


	25. To want, To wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MaryxAzazel, AU

“It’s not what I wanted but it’s what I wished for.”

Mary sighs, frustrated, as she works the spatula down the sides of the bowl, turning it so the mixer can whip up the butter and sugar. She pointedly does not look at him.

“What do you mean?”

He comes over with the bowl that has the dry mix, bumping close to her, shoulders touching, so he can tip the ingredients over into the creamed butter and sugar. Gently. A little at a time.

Mary works the spatula. “It’s just. I’d always wished for a husband, a family, a house. It’s what every little girl is supposed to wish for. And I - well, I’d never trade Sam and Dean for anything, they’re my world, you know I love them. But John is. Well. It’s not what I wanted.”

The dry ingredients are mixed. He steps away, setting the empty bowl down and leaning back against the counter, watching her as she makes sure everything is well blended. The oven pings, it’s pre heated. 

Her neighbor is a great guy, a single dad, his little girl goes to school with Sam and Dean. When they had chatted that morning over the fence, Mary had mentioned that she needed to bake dozens of cookies for the bake sale tomorrow. And of course Azazel offered to come by and help after he’d dropped Meg off at school.

John hadn’t come home last night. Azazel took Sam and Dean to school with Meg. Now he’s standing in the kitchen with her, making cookies.

“A lot of times we have to figure out what we don’t want, to really be able to figure out what we do want.”

“It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it.”

Mary turns the mixer off, takes the bowl off the stand and turns away from him, walking to the other side of the kitchen where the baking sheets are. Azazel washes his hands in the sink, dries them and comes to stand next to her to help roll out the cookies. They don’t need to stand so close, shoulder to shoulder, but they still do.

“You always have choices.”

“But some choices are just wrong, and it doesn’t matter what we want.”

Mary blinks back a sudden tear, she’s been so emotional lately and it just wells up faster than she can think. Azazel nudges her cheek with a finger, turning her towards him, swiping the corner of her wet eye with a gentle thumb.

She tries to scowl at him. Tells herself to step back. She’s been telling herself this for months though. That she shouldn’t let herself be near him. He has a way with words, and with appearing so sincere, but she knows that this is wrong. She’s starved though, desperate, to be touched in a way that’s tender and wanting, not with angry hands or hateful drunk words.

Mary bites her lip, granulated sugar in the corner, and he bends forward to fit his against hers, hand cupping her cheek. She doesn’t want this illicit thing that she’ll have to hide. But she has wished for the heat that flares under her skin at his touch, for someone to take all her yearning and to shape it.


	26. Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megstiel

The first kiss that she gives him is a trick, flippantly given as a means of distraction for something that he would have handed over if she had merely asked. In return he gives her something hard and barely contained, thrumming with violence like a threat. He hadn’t thought she’d enjoy that.

He hadn’t thought he would have.

The second kiss that she gives him follows the caress of her hand over his forehead, as if she could wipe away the nightmares in this white white place, when the lights are dark and the halls are quiet. She kisses the top of his head with a gentleness he was too out of his own mind to recognize was supposed to be a strange thing from her. 

It was soothing though, perhaps for both of them.

The third kiss that she gives him is a hurried accidental thing, a noise rustling outside the abandoned house as he passed a small bag of honey to her like a gift or offering. She had her fingers loosely wrapped around the little zip lock bag and he could see an acerbic retort on her lips. Something made a noise, most likely just a wild animal, but they were both hunted and they both needed to flee and as she turned back to him with wide eyes her fingers curled around his wrist and he leaned down to meet her before they parted ways again.

The warmth of her lips lingered like an unanswered question.

The fourth time, he gave her a kiss. An apology, a benediction, things he couldn’t form into words pressed to the raw skin of her wrist before he cleaned and wrapped it. She watched him, whiskey bottle clutched in one hand, lips pursed in disapproval, eyes narrowed. He placed a kiss on each wrist tenderly and bandaged her wounds. She made a vulgar offering, perhaps to offset the vulnerability he could sense in the tremble of her shoulders.

It was a promise, that he never had the opportunity to fulfill.


	27. how many chickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crack AU with slave Cas

“Sold! To the gentleman in the front for one cow and two goats! Pleasure doing business with you sir.”

The fat slave master banged his little wood hammer on the very official looking podium that he stood at while the angel was led off the display stand. She was a pretty little thing, fine blond hair and bright blue eyes peeping out of the lush mass of white feathers she’d wrapped around herself for modesty.

A slaver tugged on the chains of the next angel. He hissed. Tugged back and bared his teeth and flared his black wings out in a display of power rather than curling them in on himself in modesty. Another slaver prodded him from behind and he was tugged, pushed and handled up onto the podium where he stood glaring out at the audience.

“This next one is known as Castiel, he comes from the Novak clan, a very fine stock, very sturdy for manual labor.”

The angel in question was thick muscled, lightly scarred, and tanned. He continued to fiddle petulantly with his chains as he shifted from one foot to another.

“You may have some disciplinary problems with this one, but I promise you he cleans up nice. Why don’t we start the bidding at - uh - ten chickens.”

The crowd murmured. A few people sighed. There was a shuffling of linens, the market that sprawled out from the slave bock humming in the back ground with people exchanging other forms of good than angels.

“Ten chickens!”

A tall man in the back waved his hand up in the air. The angel hissed at him. A stocky woman with ruddy cheeks lifted an arm to the side, “Twelve chickens!”

Castiel scowled and rolled his eyes. What a droll affair. Humans were pathetic. The young man in the back waved again, “Fourteen chickens!”

Some angels could speak, some could not, some chose silence. Castiel, however, had no problem yelling - although hissing was usually more amusing. “My mouth alone is worth more than fourteen chickens, you assbutt!”

The crowd murmured in amused surprise.

The woman to the side folded her arms over her chest and slipped back further in the crowd.

Sam smirked as his offer of fourteen chickens wasn’t raised. No one wanted the cantankerous angel on the block. It would so serve Dean right for how mean he’d been to Ruby. Sure, Ruby tended to pee in Dean’s bed, but she was just a demon she didn’t know any better and if Dean kept being mean to her she would be mean right back.

Hey, Dean had always wanted an angel. Sam was such a good big brother.

“Sold, for fourteen chickens!”


	28. used to it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coda ep 10x22

Sam’s used to dealing with the after math. He’s the young one, the small one. The one left out of hunts when he wasn’t big enough or strong enough. He was left behind. But he still had to deal with the after math. His father, his brother, victorious and bloody. Bodies that needed to be cleansed and wounds checked, salve and stitches, the aftermath. 

Sam’s used to dealing with injury and death. He is accustomed to suffering. To blame and guilt. Failing them - his friends, strangers, his family. He has shouldered his fair share of fault for the bodies strewn behind him. He has laid fists to his brother’s face. There are tallies in his head, of names and states and dates. 

Sam is used to dying. He has died a few times himself, and he has watched his brother die. It looses it’s finality after so many rounds. And yet he’s still dead, dead tired, bone weary, lay him in the ground because his limbs are heavy and take root. Can he even be called one of the living any more. 

Sam is used to picking up the pieces. To cutting himself on their jagged edges as he tries to fit them back together but they’ve been shattered and ground until their essenitia has changed and they just, won’t … fit. He has so many pieces. And his hands are bloody from holding them. 

He should be used to it. 

This place that he’s called his home. That he has made a space for himself of soft harmless corners padded. He should have known better. 

Everything is torn apart, books piled up in a mound, tables turned, shelves splintered. There is a smell here that he knows in his bones. Gasoline. There are bodies. He assumes them enemy. Dean must have been here. And he should be used to it but he’s not.

Ragged wet breathing pulls his gaze from the pools of blood and the ruined books. He has one friend left. Bleeding. Struggling. Spread on his back among the wreckage. There is a gleam of silver, angel blade buried in a book beside his head.  Dean must have been here. 

“Cas!”

Sam is on his knees, supplicant, praying for absolution. He holds Castiel’s head, eyes fluttering and unfocused. 

“Cas, hey, hey are you okay, you can heal yourself can’t you, you’re an angel again, aren’t you , Cas….”

Sam is used to the color of red. Streaking across pale skin. Drying in the creases of a face that flinches at Sam’s touch. Why is he still hurt. Why hasn’t he healed. 

But Sam is used to this too. The hopelessness. The loss. The abandon. He knows this. Is it worth it. He knows this. This glassed over stubbornness of failure. Does Castiel believe he does not deserve to heal. 

Sam pulls him up, arms circling his chest, and Castiel does not yield to it, and Castiel does not fight it.

“Cas, Cas, hey, it’ll be okay.” 

Sam is used to lies.


	29. Not on the kitchen table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megstiel, serial killer Meg, cannibal Cas

“You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen!”

Meg rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in the air. “Where the fuck do you want me to put them?”

Castiel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How many times do I have to tell you to take them to the cellar?”

“Do you know how hard it is to get the bilco doors open with a dead body on your shoulders? Dude, you cook them anyway just, fucking, I would have thought it would be more convenient for me to just bring them in here.”

Castiel frowned disapprovingly, nudging the pale white scrawny build male that was splayed on his kitchen table. He didn’t look particularly appetizing. Meg was not very good at picking out victims. Someone with a little more fat on them, someone a little marbled, would make a much tastier pick. This guy had lanky brown hair over a bald top, thin lips, his eyes already turned milky white and his limbs stiff. Castiel wondered how long ago Meg had finished him off. Fresh was always better. She’d been out all day though, and Castiel wasn’t particularly interested in the details.

“If you want assistance please ring the doorbell and I will gladly help you take the body down to the cellar. There’s better drainage down there, and more room.”

“You’re so fucking picky.”

“And you’re carelessness is going to see my floor stained. This is unsanitary. Now please, if you’ll pick him up and follow me we can take him down to the cellar.”

Honestly, Castiel was surprised Meg hadn’t managed to get herself caught by the authorities for how negligent and unthoughtful she could be. When she peeled the body off the table, slinging him over her shoulder, there was a sticky red patch on the wood. Castiel groused and grabbed the disposable Lysol wipes from the under the sink to clean off the table while she tapped her foot impatiently by the door.

She’d stick around for dinner, of course. Somehow she managed to be very good at what she did, and Castiel was very good at what he did. All the non edible parts were properly disposed of without a trace. And he would send her home with a goody bag of left overs. It was a useful system between the two of them. Castiel had to admit he liked the company during dinner. But he sincerely hoped she’d stop letting herself in through the back door and leaving the bodies on his kitchen table.

He ate dinner on that table.


	30. no rules no masters no fucking underwear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drowley

“I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else.”

Dean was still a little drunk, admittedly - ok maybe a lot drunk - but Crowley wasn’t making any sense. Disentangling himself from the pile of warm bodies on the bed, and careful not to trip over the people passed out on the floor, he stood naked in front of the king of hell.

“The fuck you talking about.”

Crowley leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “For the love of Hell, have you suddenly developed an allergy to clothes?”

“Hey man, you weren’t talking like that when we had that thing with the triplets a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, well, I am in support of debauchery and sin to a degree, however, there are important matters we need to attend that will require underwear, and pants, and a shirt.”

Dean heard one of the girls start to lightly snore on the bed behind him. He hadn’t even really fallen asleep, or passed out, he had ended up trapped between too many bodies and it was a pretty nice warm place to be so he was just chillin for a little bit. But now Crowley decided they had business to attend to. He was always telling Dean what to do and when and even when he wasn’t Dean knew he was manipulating shit behind the scenes. Fuck that. Underwear was not necessary.

Stepping up close to the other demon, Dean braced a hand on the doorframe next to Crowley’s head and leaned in. He was so short that when Dean got up close, by a whole head, but still managed to keep that air of cocky arrogance with Dean looking down on him with black eyes. Naked. Crowley sure hadn’t minded the naked part for a while but now it was all business.

“Bet we got a few minutes for fun before we get down to business. Or am I just distracting you here?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and moved left. Dean boxed him in, leaned closer.

“Fucks sake, you know being a demon isn’t all fun.”

“Huh, I thought it was supposed to be.”

“We have innocents to corrupt and souls to collect in order to keep Hell going.”

Pressing closer, Dean slid his thigh up in between Crowley’s. He knew who was really in command here, and it wasn’t some pudgy paperwork pushing demon that thought he had Dean on a leash. Oh no. Dipping his head down, rubbing his cheek against Crowley’s, Dean nipped at his ear.

“C’mon babe, I’m sure some of these gals would love another ride, or you and me could have a fun time ourselves.”

He laughed to himself when he felt Crowley give up, body slumping before surging forward, hands gripping on to Dean’s bare waist as the king of hell started biting his neck viciously. No rules, no masters, no fucking underwear, Dean did what he wanted.


	31. Collision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sastiel, AU

“Please, put me down. It’s just a sprained ankle.”

Sam blushed and set the guy back down on the sidewalk. Oh god he felt horrible. He was going to turn left on his bike and didn’t notice this guy starting to cross the street and just bowled in to him and oh gosh.

“Hey, hey are you sure you’re ok, I hit you pretty hard man?”

“You toppled off your bike as well. I could ask the same question.”

“No, no I’m fine.”

“It’s just my ankle, I assure you.”

The other guy balanced on one foot and lifted his bad ankle to roll it, testing it out, grimacing a little. Sam scratched the back of his neck and hauled his bike off the street, standing awkwardly, still unsure what he was supposed to do.

Big blue eyes turned on him and Sam might have sworn the guy was smiling. “Honestly, what were you about to do, carry me to the hospital?”

Shit. There was his blush again. Just what had he been thinking? “Uh, I uh, I don’t know but you were all spread out on the pavement and I panicked, and I’m sorry if I overstepped boundaries or anything man, I just - “

“It’s all right.”

The other guy was standing on both legs now, checking the pockets of his trench coat probably to see if anything had been lost. Sam swept his eyes over the street again to see if there was anything scattered. He missed the other guy leaning forward, brushing hair off Sam’s face.

“You’re bleeding.”

Sam blinked, looking down at the stranger, a thumb rubbing across his forehead. “I… what?”

“It looks like you scraped your forehead. You’re bleeding.”

Sam reached up, rubbing his forehead, and yeah it was a little sticky. Self consciously, he rubbed at it, but the stranger still looked concerned.

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“My brother has a coffee shop a few blocks away, if you want to get a cup, he has a first aid kit.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. It was my fault I ran in to you, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s your fault or not, if you’re hurt. Please. My name is Castiel.”

Sam smiled and accepted the hand offered, and yeah he maybe kind of totally wanted to have a cup of coffee with this Castiel guy. People kept filing around them crossing the street, and really the only thing Sam had to do for the rest of the day was read the books in his backpack that he’d just gotten from the library.

“Uh, yeah sure, that sounds good. I’m Sam.”


	32. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MaryxAzazel

“That is the tenth demon summoning this week holy shit.”

Azazel wheeled around in the little circle he’d been summoned in, the smell of burning herbs cloying in the air. The young blond woman that had summoned stood with her arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Oh stop complaining Az, I know you’d sleep at the foot of my bed if I asked you.”

“Hey just because you cast a spell to bind me to you, doesn’t mean I want to be bound to you. Seriously, ten times in a week? Are we going for a record here?”

“It’s only Friday, I might want you for something tomorrow.”

Putting out the bowl of flaming herbs, Mary scratched some of the sigil lines out with her boot. At least the demon could move freely now, sidling up behind her where she was bagging some supplies.

“So what’d you summon me for Mary? Sweet little Mary, good Mary, you in a spot of trouble honey?”

Mary swatted at his hand but didn’t move away. Turning around, she smiled so pretty at him all big pleading eyes and pouty lips.

“What, I can’t just call you if I want a little company?”

“Well sure you can darling, do we really need all the extras then?”

Azazel waved around them at the - admittedly well executed - summoning set up.

“It’s the fastest way to get to you.”

Her arms circled his waist, pulling him in a little closer, lips on his neck.

“You know, I really need to teach you how to make a call with a bowl of blood.”

“I thought only demons could do that?”

Azazel pushed his hands through her hair, she had the prettiest hair like spun sunshine.

“They can do it the best, but determined witches can do it too.”

“You should show me that trick then, sometime, maybe later.”

Mary eased back, hopped up to perch on the edge of the table, bronze bowl clattering behind her, legs bracketing his waist as he followed her forward.

“Of course. Later. I’ve got other tricks to show you now.”


	33. Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CainxSamxDean , Explicit

Dean slid his hands over his brother’s chest, fingertips flicking at pert nipples, pushing the palms of his hands down and kneading. Sam arched up against the contact, little sweet whimpers begging for more. Like he could deny Sam anything. Leaning over, Dean laved a tongue against one nipple sucking it between his teeth, rolling the delicate bud and tugging.

“Ah, ah…”

Cain reprimanded, pulling Dean back with a rough hand on his hair. He tried not to be impatient, he really did, but there was nothing Dean loved more than his mouth on Sam’s body.

“Here now,”

Cain stood over the both of them, Sam stretched out over the kitchen table and Dean on a chair between his legs taking what he wanted. With a stainless steel bowl and little spatula, Cain spread a frothy white mix over Sam’s chest.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

The kitchen was warm from the oven, pie still baking, chunks of apple and slices of strawberry. Jesus, if Dean didn’t know any better he’d think Cain was trying to kill him with impatience. One recipe at a time. One weekend at a time. But the older man still took good care of them.

“Please, fuck Cain, what’d you, what d’you want….” Sam practically slurred, his hard cock pressing between Dean and his belly, chest spit wet, bruises down his neck, mouth hanging open as his eyes rolled back.

Dean was a glutton. No point hiding that fact. For some reason, Cain seemed to love it.

“Here, I was just whipping this up for the pie….”

Out of the silver bowl, Cain scooped up mounds of fluffy white and dolloped them over Sam’s chest. Dean leaned along him, lapped it up, sweet thin spun cream and sugar so light on his tongue. Fucking, home whipped cream being spattered across Sam’s chest, and wasn’t that where Dean’s cock was supposed to go?

Lapping at the thick white cream, Dean rutted against his brother’s belly as he ate what Cain offered. And yeah, it was definitely better than Cool Whip. Don’t hear him say that, or Cain would insist on everything being home made.

Hard wood chair digging against his thighs, Dean strained foward, Sam’s huge cock wet and sliding along the ridges of his abs. Mouth locked on a nipple, Dean worked between them. Fingers slick and stretching Sam open, Dean distracted his brother as he pressed forward. Cain, minding what they were baking as well as what they were fucking, took the pie out of the oven before it could burn.

That was all right.

Dean’s dick in Sam’s ass and Cain’s sliding in to his throat so deep that Dean could see it bulge out, it didn't’ matter if there was a smattering of sweet cream across his chest before Dean and Cain could mark him with worse.


	34. breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megstiel, choking, Explicit

Castiel struggled for breath, his hands clasped around Meg’s waist as she straddled him, pushing his hips up into that wet heat as she choked him. Eyes flicking to black and back again, she regarded him like a wild animal, but Castiel supposed that was only fair as he regarded her as such. Holding on to her narrow waist, Castiel thrust up into her.

“C’mon, is that all you got angel?”

He could tell that she was teasing, not like it was a subtle thing, but nonetheless it grated at him. That she thought so ill of him. That she was always asking for more. Was he so inadequate, to be found lacking by his brothers and by the evil spawn they fought against as well?

Flipping her over, strong hands on her hips, Castiel wrestled with the demon until he had her on her hands on knees. One rough grip in her hair, yanking her head back until her whole body bowed to it, pussy presented to him, Castiel growled against her neck.

Leaving kisses and bites along smooth skin, he asked, “What do you expect?”

Meg rolled her hips back, wet and loud as she unashamedly pursued what she desired, “I want all of you,”

“You have it,” Castiel replied, knowing it was a lie.

Meg laughed at him, hips grinding back, her delicate small frame writhing underneath him. “Don’t lie to me angel..,.”

Sliding a hand up along her side, sweet curves, smooth and delicate to the touch, Castiel pushed his fingers through her messy loose hair. Enjoying, for a moment, the silk feel of it in his palms, he lingered. Grasping a handful, Castiel hauled her head back.

“And what do you think you are worth?”

Circling an arm around her neck, palm flattening against the curve and fingers seeking the spot below the hinge of the jaw where the blood pulsed, Castiel shoved in to her with sharp snaps of his hips and let his hands linger along her body, though he had what he needed in mind. Grasping her neck, curled over her as they fucked like low animals, Castiel smoothed his nose between the sharp jut of her shoulder blades.

He wanted things for himself that he knew he couldn’t have.

“Everything. For you.” Meg gasped between breathe as she ground back.

She was loyal, to a fault, and Castiel assumed it would always be aligned to her ‘Father’ Azazel, though he were long dead. How much more blood need she shed for them, how much more need she suffer, until he believed her.

Sliding a hand to curl around her throat, pressing tight as he fucked in to her with desperate shoves, hip to hip and rocking erratic as he took. Castiel shuddered and molded himself along Meg’s body. She gasped for breath when he let her throat go. And he knew that she didn’t need it. But still, he wanted to give her all the material comforts a body sought.

“It’s about time, c’mon angel cheeks, let’s get this party started. “


	35. Appetite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TomxHael

“That is so disgusting.”

Hael crooked an eyebrow at her mate, then continued to pour a half a bottle of Russian dressing over her salad.

“Do you even know how much sugar is in that?” Tom asked, high pitched.

Hael snorted at her mate and continued to empty the dressing over her small, sad mound of greens. “It’s good,” was all she offered in defense.

Of course, ‘It’s good’ wasn’t near anywhere good enough for Tom. Who was emptying a bottle of Ranch over his own salad. Gross. Tom, who wanted to know the results of all her recent tests, how much calcium and iron she was getting, what sort of supplements she should be on.

Frankly, to Hael, she had a bun growing in the oven, she was hungry and horny and it didn’t matter who’s bun it was. Ok, maybe that was mean to Tom. But really, all her tests had come back all right and at the moment all she really wanted was to grow this little seed and get it out of her fucking body.

But she was so hungry.

Worse than any period cravings, worse than any drunk inclinations that landed her in this situation on the first place, it seemed that as soon as she got an idea in her head it was what she needed. She was… impulsive.

Hael didn’t even like salads very much before the little bun in her decided it did.

Tom, however, proved very good at providing for her. Bags of spinach, boxes of loose leaf salad mix, fresh carrots and cucumbers. Tom took her health far more seriously than Hael ever did.

It was kind of sweet.

And kind of annoying.

In truth, all Hael wanted was to give birth to the half angel and half demon abomination that she nurtured within her womb. But that was….. not the entire truth. As it grew within her, taking shape and pressing against the swell of her belly, Hael couldn't’ help but ascribe living characteristics to the little lump of almost human growing within her.

It certainly only made the problem worse when Tom kept coming, day after day, to check up on Hael. Consistently, the thing she wanted most was fresh vegetables and rich dressing, and consistently the thing Tom brought her was such. 

Perhaps someday, Hael hoped, there could be a world in which demons and angels might coexist. But for now, she supposed, this was enough. The little stolen moments that they had, the same moments of desperate touch and stolen kisses which led to salad missions and cooing over her swollen belly.

Tom, at least, didn’t question when what Hael wanted most was for him to claim her, to press deep into her and mark her, fill her with his semen and bite his mark into the pale skin of her neck. As angel, Hael wasn’t as incline to those dispositions, but she knew how powerful they could be.

With Tom’s mark bruised into her skin, purple and black, no one could question the legitimacy of their spawn. One way or another, they would carve their own chosen path.


	36. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CrowleyxRowena, pegging, Explicit

Eyes flashed to black and sharp nails dug into soft flesh, Rowena laughed as she pushed forward.

“Wee bairn, mah boy, look at ye.”

It was too good, too sweet really, after centuries of hardship and hiding. After being persecuted not only by the zealous but by her own kind who would deny the genius that she possessed. Nothing in life was every easy or ever fair, and she never claimed as such, but finally getting what she deserved.

Och. It was so sweet.

Leather straps digging in to her hips, stripped of her fine dresses but comfortable in her near nudity, Rowena was adept at putting on a show. Hard polished wood of her cock shoving forward into the tight clutch of that pink hole. Mayhap she should feel some remorse, but she only felt the shivering thrill of approval slither down her spine.

He was bound, sigiled cuffs and collar around him, thighs held open and mouth gagged shut. Her child. Her own spawn. She’d pushed him out of her body screaming and bloody.

And what had he ever given her in return?

Nothing but trouble.

Her new Lord was far more generous, far more powerful than Crowley ever was.

Lucifer watched, and he laughed, and he guided her. Wearing that ridiculous angel, that stuck up nobody, Lucifer sat atop his rightful throne. Rowena had no qualms in indulging him, for so long he was denied, for so long he was punished. She would give him anything. Everything.

If he wanted to humiliate the former king of Hell? Oh, she had a special stake in that matter.

Knees bloody on the hard stone floor, her curly red hair wild around her head, body dripping with sweat, Rowena pushed on. With nails and teeth she punished her only boy. He may have come from her loins but he meant nothing to her. The only thing that Crowley stood for was her stolen freedom and lost opportunities.

Laughing as she fucked him, dirty with the sweat and come of so many demons already come before her, Rowena shoved his face forward onto the hard stone floor and ground her hips against him, long cock splitting him wide.

“An’ what’d ye think’d come of yer ambitions, hm?”

Not like she was in a position to lecture, but aye, so long as she wasn’t being punished herself then she was above him. Och, she’d paid enough, not only with her own mortal life. Being reborn as a demon was reward enough.

Now, she could serve Lucifer for eternity.

For all the ambition that Rowena held for herself, the lure of power that Lucifer offered was too great to ignore.

Dainty hands holding on to her son’s hips, Rowena fucked in to him brutally, laughing at his embarrassment as the whole court watched, keeping an eye on Lucifer who only watched with the briefest interest. Mostly, Rowena supposed, he wanted to embarrass.

And what could be more mortifying that getting fucked by one’s mother wielding a wooden cock?


	37. Gold Glimmer Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanstiel, Mature, Stripper AU

Hannah paid the entrance fee, gave her ID, slid in to the club among the crowd of sweaty bodies and blatant desires. Mostly males, some females, in the crowd that pulsed around the main stage of performers. She felt, usually, like a despicable human whenever she frequented this place.

Yet this seedy strip club was full of people only trying to make their own living. The complications of human attraction and interaction were beyond her desire to grasp. But this sort of thing. It was a transaction.

Hannah wasn’t necessarily interested in sexual intercourse. Certainly not with most people. But she could appreciate the form, the art of what the performers put in to their acts. Hannah desired to watch, even if she didn’t want to be watched in return. What better place, then, but a strip club?

There were a few strange looks thrown her way. A few questions in raised eyebrows. But it didn’t matter if the other patrons thought she belonged or not. The only thing that mattered were the folded bills between her fingers.

The reason that Hannah gave her business to this place, at first, was that the women and men were gorgeous in equal measure as they stripped teasingly on the poles. Anymore, though, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t come here every Friday at the same time for the same dancer.

He called himself Castiel.

It made her laugh that he’d given himself the stage name of an angel. 

But the tight gold boy shorts around his cock made her mouth water, the glimmering planes of hard muscle of his stomach accentuated by the shimmering glitter liberally applied. Hannah didn't’ necessarily want anything to do with him, but she coveted. It was curious.

Every Friday she came. Every Friday she watched. Sometimes, she was bold enough to bring bills to tuck into the string of his thong. Lovely blue eyes watching her, tousled hair under dim lights, plump lips so pink.

Hannah liked it when he watched her.

Sometimes he approached her and offered a dance. Ten dollars? Surely, she had this. But she dreaded any more interaction that just as another face in the crowd. Hannah was happy to observe. It seemed, though, that the dancer she coveted was not happy with this arrangement. At first, she wondered if it was the fact that she were a girl which made him uncomfortable.

But when he lured her, through the placating words of other dancers and the suggestions of the bar keep who gave her drinks, in to the dark back recesses of the club. Oh. Hannah was done for.

She didn’t relate well to other people. She didn’t care to. But the company of this lithe boy dusted with gold glitter who would strip for money, it somehow rang more genuine to her than most interactions did. And she wanted. Badly. So she let herself be led, paid her dues.

Narrow hips pressed against her, the heat of his body, strong hands roaming over her shoulders when policy was strictly ‘no touch’, breath against her neck, hard cock sliding against her thigh.

Hannah lusted.

Sweet boy, blue eyed boy, with nothing to give the world but his body, Hannah would cherish him if he’d let her. But that wasn’t what this was. She gave what she could, for what little comfort she might demand. Soft lips against her, nimble hands under the hem of her shirt, hard muscle shifting in a mockery of intimacy.

She’d ask no more but the mere suggestion of intimacy from this gold glimmer boy.


	38. Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DeanxDonna, Explicit

God but Dean could watch this all day long.

Pale smooth skin, smattered with a few freckles, tiger stripes up her hips and those adorable rolls to her belly as she rocks down on him. Donna’s a Rubenesque beauty, classic and timeless. And yeah, he actually studied for his art history class once to impress a girl.

Her hair is so fucking soft in his hands, smells like some kind of fruit, sweet and ripe. Dean loves it when she’s feeling frisky, feeling confident, enough to ride him on top. Thick thighs spread wide and he’s got a great view this way. The blond curls at the top of her pussy, how she stretches around his cock, glistening pink and so fucking tasty. He’d know, he always gets his nose wet before they fuck. It’s his favorite part, making her shiver on his tongue before he lets her do whatever she wants with everything else.

Trim, neat nails rake down his chest, little red furrows in their wake but she’s gentle and careful with her wild side.

“C’mon sweetheart, a little faster…”

“Like that, doncha cowboy.”

And he loves that he can laugh with her, making his belly flutter with a full bodied laugh as she giggles at her own bad joke and rolls her hips faster. Alternating between bouncing up and down on him, then grinding in neat little swivels that have his cock stretching all around her insides, clenching hot and wet.

Full heavy breasts sway as she rocks up and down. Dean loves to drag his rough hands over smooth skin, up the spread of her thighs and over plush hips to squeeze at the small of her waist then flutter higher over her flushed warm heaving body, cup her breasts and squeeze. Donna bites her lip when he does that, whimpers so pretty when he pinches the buds of her nipples between his fingers. Bracing her hands wide on his chest, she curls over him so he can get a better handful, greedy greedy.

When Donna’s feeling nice enough she’ll lean far enough over him that Dean can latch his mouth on to the pretty pink and suck hard, bury his whole fucking face in her chest until he can’t breath and let her smother him. Bed dipping under their weight, his hands framing her hips, heels dug into the bed so he can push up into her, Dean loves being surrounded with her soft supple fullness.

Donna’s always so wet as Dean slides his hands over her body, mouths over her chest leaving wet bruises, snaps his hips up faster as she finds just the right spot and stills so her can take over, push up in to her faster and right there there she cries out with her nails sunk into his skin and Dean doesn’t take long to follow after when she gushes against him, the tight clutch of her heat contracting around his cock.

Dean adores the way she looks and can’t get enough of how she wants him, but it’s the after he really cherishes. Her shy smiles and insecurities gone in the wake of really mind melting orgasms, plump body relaxed easy for his wandering hands and appreciative gaze as she sighs and lays next to him. Both of them warm from their exertion, mouths lazily finding each other.

All thoughts of what hunt or what necessity brought them together is just gone, basking in the afterglow.


	39. Baggage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wincest, Teen

He’s got so much baggage weighing him down.

_Look after your brother Dean_

And that’s how Sam always saw himself. Baggage. Something heavy and cumbersome. Something to be lugged around from state to state in the back of a car. Something you’ve got to deal with, that carries things you need, but it’s still annoying. Wouldn’t it be better to travel without baggage.

But you can’t.

That’s the point.

And Dean’s never complained. Even as more and more and more baggage was piled on him. Sam doesn’t know all of it, he probably doesn’t even know the half of it. He’s got more than his fair share of burdens to bear too, all those messy emotions and messy stories he doesn’t want to deal with that he just shoves down into the bottom and covers with the necessities, zips up tight and throws in the back.

Still.

He wishes he could take a few bags from his brother.

Because Dean’s always held so much for him. Dean has so much baggage that’s full of Sam-things that Sam thinks it should be his to carry. Take care of Sam, protect him, feed him, make sure he does his homework, wipe his snotty nose and feed him cold medicine, put him in the bath, show him how to clean a shot gun and how to get out of a chokehold.

Long as Sam can remember, Dean’s held his weight.

It’s not really fair.

And Sam does what he can, when he can. He’s an endless reserve of love and adoration for his big brother, no matter how stubborn Dean can be, no matter the hurtful things Dean can say when he’s being defensive. Sam has always loved him like he was all the world compressed into one, good, loyal human being. Loved him every way a brother can and all the ways a brother shouldn’t. 

Loved with heart and soul, body and mind.

It doesn’t matter if Dean has a lot of baggage. From their dad, from himself, from society, from the hunting community. Sam hopes he can stop giving Dean baggage, can lighten the load instead.

He knows he still does. Still gives Dean heavy hard things to shoulder. And Dean does. Without complaint. Without protest.

Still, Sam tries to take and take what he can, shoulder his own share, soldier on, love Dean in ways that won’t make him crumple under the weight.

Sometimes Sam feels like nothing more than an inanimate, heavy, over-stuffed piece of musty luggage falling apart at the seams that’s bound to get lost at the terminal and never seen again.

There’s still room. Still a few secret compartments to stash away things. Pilfered guilts from his brother and confessions whispered between sweat damp skin.

Sam’s got more room, infinite room, for anything his brother will share.


	40. Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AbaddonxRowena , Mature

She finds the witch in a filthy hovel. Little more than a hut made of twigs and mud. Hair matted and robes ragged, her green eyes shine with a bright fury through her surroundings. There’s so much potential there, Abaddon knows well, but she’s been pursued and cornered, prosecuted through the ages, and she needs help.

They both know it.

But she’s a stubborn witch. As most are. She scoffs at Abaddon and lifts her head high like her feet weren’t caked in mud. She still has her pride for how far she’s fallen. She still has her spirit. Which is perfect.

Abaddon needs an inside informant, a confidant, a double agent if you want to go modern. To get the best of Crowley, you have to get close. Because the slimy little worm is all too good at escaping. But how long has it been since he’s seen his mother. Blood ties are all too often absolute for humans, or creatures that used to be human.

Abaddon can’t remember that part of herself.

At least Rowena cleans up nicely. Her long hair shines fire red and her skin is pale and smooth. Abaddon grooms her, prepares her, for the role that she is to fulfill. They’re both of like mind, enough, both stubborn and vindictive and spiteful. Maybe they have different reasons, but the end result is the same. Take Crowley down.

It doesn’t happen in an evening. Of course not. They both have a little catching up to do, where current events are concerned. And Abaddon finds that she doesn’t mind spending time in the witch’s company. Rowena is sharp witted and ruthless, a witch after her own heart.

It’s easy, to want, to desire. The time leap still throws Abaddon through a loop every now and then, but Rowena is a creature from a different era as well. They are both of similar persuasions. When Abaddon tests the limits, she does not yield. She pushes back.

It’s easy, to become more. In all the boring waiting and plotting between slaughters and sneaky spells. It’s easy, to taste and to take. Neither offers, but both pursue. With sharp nails and wicked mouths, with hungry eyes and warm bodies. It’s right enough.

Rowena is soft and sweet when she wants to be, all gentle curves and the yielding hold of her thighs parted, drawing Abaddon in, her appetite insatiable and her smile wanting. It’s too easy, to fall in to her hold. But her nails dig deep and her teeth are sharp as she laughs against the blood smeared skin of Abaddon’s meatsuit. One takes as one is given.

Abaddon tears at her, testing, voracious for so many years denied as she strips flesh from Rowena’s body and devours her. Her vessel is more susceptible to damage, weaker, yet she pushes and goads, begs well enough with her tear streaked eyes and sweat dampened chest. Wet and hot she clutches around Abaddon, pulling her in. And maybe they’d both destroy each other before they could turn outwards, but destruction, this is Abaddon’s game.


	41. something new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AbaddonxCain , non-con, Explicit

Red tipped fingernails curled around the restraints that bound his wrists and hauled him back. There was a gash high on his arm still sluggishly bleeding, running wet down arms caked with old blood and dirt and dripping onto the forest floor beneath them. His arms were pulled back cruelly and bound with sigil etched iron at the biceps, the elbows, the wrists, his back arching as his shoulders were pushed forward with the angle. Long graying hair was matted, hanging in thick stands sweaty and filthy.

Laughing, Abaddon pumped her hips to shove even deeper into his body. Held him with her full strength when his was locked away under the restraints. She taunted him and took immense pleasure in his humiliation. The pain of it would be just a sting for a creature like Cain, but the humiliation, the shredded remains of his stubborn pride as she used his body in any way she please, as her hoards of demonic foot soldiers watched clustered behind the trees, now that was what would wound the deepest.

Scratching long nails up his grimy skin, pressing her fingers in to the lingering wounds that would fester, she curled her hand around his neck and yanked him up. Abaddon was beyond filthy herself from the fight - and the bodies of her followers eviscerated and vacated around them were testament to his strength - but this was her victory and she would revel in the foul state of their bodies as she violated him.

His body trembled beneath her without his preternatural strength to hold him up. Though he had stopped struggling, she knew he wasn’t defeated. He was waiting. He knew that he was defeated and would be recalculating his strategy. Abaddon was well aware that leaving him alive would be dangerous. But this was hard won and she would have her fun.

Pushing her hands through tangled hair, she pulled harshly and bit her way along his shoulder up his neck.

“You made me what I am.”

He grit his teeth and tugged weakly in her grasp.

“And I’m going to make you…”

Yanking his head back she bit at his face, at his lips.

“… I’m going to make you into something new.”


	42. Sandwiches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denny, Gen

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean leans against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed against his chest, as he watches Benny.

“What do you mean, cher?”

“Are you using, like, half that jar of mayo?”

Benny looks down at the sandwiches, one in hand, knife with a thick pull of mayo on it before he spreads the creamy sauce on the rye bread. They’re nice sandwiches, roast beef and muenster cheese with slices of green pepper and mayo on rye. One of his favorites.

“You got a problem with mayo, brother?”

Dean rolls his eyes and makes his way to the counter, eyeing the lunch. It does look pretty tasty, even if Benny’s using a little too much of the white stuff.

“You make pie crusts from scratch and spend all day in the kitchen over a roux.”

Benny hip checks him, slapping the top on to the last sandwich.

“Yeah, an’ I aint gonna do that every day. Obviously.”

Dean frowns at a mayo dripping sandwich, sloppy with it. 

Benny closes the lid on the jar. “You don’t like mayonnaise?”

Dean will eat damn near about anything. He eats whatever he has to, when he doesn’t really have any other options. And he stores up like a squirrel most the rest of the times. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his favorites, and his least favorites, even if he tries not to pick. But Benny is easy to pick with. Benny likes it when Dean’s pleased, tries so hard.

“Nah, it’s good, Benny, thanks.”

“Don’t know how sincere you are about that, but sure. How’s the case going, we find our target yet.”

“Not quite.”

Dean reassures him with a kiss, on the soft-scruff of Benny’s cheek, all growing out peppered with white.

Pulled in with a wide hand on his hip, Dean leans back against the counter.

“Got some spare time, then?” Benny asks.

Dean tips his head back, baring his neck, for warm breath and sharp teeth barely scraping a line down.

“Little time,” he concedes.

Benny shoves him against the cupboards with hips, thick bulge of his cock growing harder. Dean takes it, a second, a minute, hand drifting back to palm Benny’s ass. But it ends up pulling over his hip, splaying across his chest, pushing back.

“But it’s gonna take me a minute to get down a sandwich with so much mayo.”

Benny looks genuinely wounded.

“Sugar, shoulda told me that before.”


	43. Sandwiches take 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denny, explicit, AU

The wall A/C besides the back door is chugging away to pump cool air into the kitchen, but with ovens running it’s hot enough that Dean’s chest is slick with sweat and he’s sliding on the stainless steel prep table where his shirts rucked up. Hands scrabbling for purchase, gave up on holding himself on his elbows a while ago, face smashed to the table and he’s sobbing because Benny’s a goddam tease. 

“C’mon, babe, I’m open…”

“Got to make sure, sugar, can’t believe we didn’t bring anything.”

“This is against like, ten different health codes, we’re gonna be shut down before we even get to the grand opening.”

“Christening a new kitchen is tradition.”

“You’re fucking filthy.”

“An’ you love it.”

Thighs shaking as Benny nudges them apart with broad shoulders, Dean huffs and pushes back. His skin is sensitive from the beard, warm and shivery, ass opening relaxed for Benny’s greedy tongue. 

“Shaddup.”

The awning in front of the currently locked soon to be sandwich shop is new, striped bright green, and the gold letters on the door were just put there yesterday. They’ve got two days to go to the grand opening, and they’re still testing equipment. Dean’s been real careful getting a feel for the ovens, prideful of the bread he makes. 

He is going to be scrubbing the entire kitchen down with bleach after this. Several times. 

“You keep eating my ass the bread’s gonna be done before we get to the good part.”

Strong hands slide over his hips and pin Dean to the table as Benny straightens up, pulling his apron from between their bodies and draping it over Dean’s back, sliding his cock against the crease of Dean’s ass. 

“Jus’ hold still a second…”

Dean blinks sweat out of his eyes but it still stings, lays against the table panting as Benny fusses behind him. Something thick and wet is spread around his hole, calloused fingers pressing it inside, twist just right, and Dean should probably ask what Benny’s getting up to back there but he ain’t turning around at this point. 

Whatever it is works well enough for a minute when the fat head of Benny’s cock splits him open and slides home easy, sinking deep and Dean groans as his legs give out. Benny drapes over him, curls an arm under his belly, and fucks him stupid. 

Things start to get a little sticky. 

Dean’s not too sure what the fuck that smell is. 

But he still moans when he comes as Benny gets a hand on his cock, pounding him bent over the prep table while they’re dripping with sweat and the oven timer starts going off. Jittering with the aftershocks of a good orgasm, Dean weakly slaps at Benny behind him when Benny goes still, twitches inside him, noses at Dean’s neck and murmurs endearments in french. 

“The bread, Benny.”

Benny’s got a useless smile on his face and Dean’s too worried about his bread so he waddles to the oven with something oil-tacky between his legs and his jeans around his thighs, carefully pulling the hot pans out to put on the cooling rack while Benny snickers at him like an asshole. 

Turning back around, Dean sees the industrial size jar of mayonnaise on the table with it’s lid off.

“Are you fucking serious, Benny, mayo?”

“Did the trick just fine.”

“I’m a mess.”

“C’mere, cher, I’ll clean you up.”

“You are not licking mayonnaise out of my ass.”

“Is that filthier than licking my own semen out your ass?”

“Oh god.”

“God’s got nothing to do with this brother.”


	44. Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sastiel, mature

Sam always wanted to believe.

That there was something good which could temper all the bad in the world.

It didn’t used to be so difficult, when he was young. When a little free food or the warmth of a teacher’s concerned embrace could make him feel like all was right. When his brother was the singular force of good, was his guardian and protector. When there was potential to his life, in what he could become and what he could mean to the world.

It’s a little harder now.

To know that he’s an abomination. To wonder if his brother knows how much alike he is to the monsters that they hunt. It’s not normal, the things he sees and knows. And there’s just so much bad in the world that their job never ends.

It’s hard to believe, even if he’s always wanted to.

Sam still kneels to confess his sins. Still prays to a God that’s never interfered, for a little help. Still tries his hardest, despite the hill growing higher before him and his Sisyphian task, to believe. That there’s something better out there, which matters.

He meets an angel.

It’s nothing like what he expected. There is no glory and there is no divine revelation. There is no understanding.

It’s an angel, as beat down and tired by the toil of existing as Sam and his brother are.

The sting isn’t any easier when the angel calls him an Abomination. Sam Winchester. Less than. Evil. Freak. Something else.

He’s not sure what he is, or why, but Sam does not yield.

Sam has always wanted to believe.

That there is purpose. That there is reason.

Why would God create, if not for a reason?

It’s egotistic to think that he could understand. He is a human. He is less than. He is tainted. Of course he does not understand.

But oh does he try.

Sam watches, he waits, and he fights, and he does not understand.

When the angel that pulled his brother from Hell is on their side, it feels…. complete. A fate meant to be. It’s ridiculous, really, it’s arrogant. He shouldn’t. But it feels right, with Castiel by their side, whether they win or lose, Sam feels like it’s all right.

It’s unhealthy. An obsession. For something he could never comprehend.

Castiel is good, he is right and he is divine. He must have the answers, Sam knows. Sam is certain in his conviction.

There are many things that Sam has been certain of before. That he could leave. That he is his own man. That he knew.

Something draws him in. Like it hurts to touch but he couldn’t do anything else. Picking off a scab, painful, satisfying.

Castiel, scab of the Lord.

Hands touch with certainty that could brook no argument. He is filthy. He is not worthy.

Hands touch, that might lend absolution. Heaven bound and worthy, Castiel must know.

Not only of what he is but of what he could be. An entirety, of nows and soon to be’s. Castiel is judgement and yet, for all his transgressions, Sam is deemed worthy. A good man. He doesn’t understand, but he aches for the white-hot touch of the angel that purifies him, sweeps through everything he is and burns away.

All that is not.

All that poisons.

It’s an obsession, but is it so wrong to want. From a thing as high and holy. To purify. To cleanse.

Sam will be born anew. By the flames of hands branding hot his hips and the seal of lips against his chest. Sam will be reshaped.

He believes.


	45. the hounds of hell bray ceaselessy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DeanxHellhounds and way too much purple prose

The hounds of hell bray ceaselessly.

Through the dirge of wounded cries, they make themselves known.

On hands and knees, Dean knows them.

They have no names, but now, with eyes blackened, he can see them. Creatures patched together, carrion, made of the nightmares and fears of the living which they drag down here, made of the suffering of the creatures they rend apart endlessly.

Dean swears that they smell of rotting flesh. Sulphur clogs his nose, but he swears, the ragged scraps of meat that hang off their bones, festering, it must be putrid.

Creatures from the pit. Spawned long ago, he doesn’t really know where they go when they die or if any more will take their place. If they breed.

She tells him, that these creatures will teach him who he is.

On hands and knees he learns.

Disemboweled, his body strung across charred ground that hisses for every drop of blood, when he doesn’t even know if his hands and knees connect to one another, he learns. Weakness. Vulnerability. There’s more to him than his vessel, for how could he suffer when he’s just a scraps, chew toys for the hounds.

On hands and knees he learns.

With vicious teeth, claws that gnarl his hands and he’s grateful for them wherever they came from, he fights. Again and again. But every time he comes back, it’s a little harder to take him apart. Plaything, thighs spread, face pressed to the burning floor till it fuses, smell of searing skin as he screams, he discovers what it really means to rip his own nose off in spite - so that he might twist around and lash at the creature mounting him.

On hands and knees he learns.

She is fond of him. Hair like a crown of flames around her head, tangled mess of horns grown from her brow curling into and away from themselves, fractal, infinite in possibility here. He learns her name whispered across the scattered ash of atmosphere that carries every scream and plea of the damned, every secret, every truth.

Abaddon.

She would make him into something new.

He kicks the hounds away and stands on his own two feet, scales for skin and the paws of a beast, eyes sharp to see the layers of this hellscape, nose to smell the shifting winds and tongue to taste the sulphur on ash.

There is nothing new about him.

He is sharpened, focused.

They flinch from him on instinct. There is power, now, in the command of his voice pulled from bellows deep, in the sway of his hands hardened against the bloodied stone.

She smiles.

He can see the tendrils of thick corrosive smoke that wend around her head, can see the pulse of rotten hearts and eyes honed bright as the hounds sit at her feet. He has a purpose here, he has a master.

And he smiles.

The hounds of hell bray ceaselessly.


End file.
